


Well in Hand

by blasted0glass



Category: Grim Dawn (Video Game)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-04
Updated: 2019-05-04
Packaged: 2020-02-18 12:46:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18699886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blasted0glass/pseuds/blasted0glass
Summary: Witness the internal struggle of a mage trying to use Albrecht's aether ray to save humanity from the aetherial invasion.





	Well in Hand

**Author's Note:**

> This story was originally an entry for the r/rational biweekly rationalist writing challenge: Conversion.

I’ve written the sigil ten thousand times. That was necessary. Casting a spell with the aid of a written or embossed sigil is one thing, but making the spell a part of oneself requires more. At first it had merely been a pattern of lines, an ineffective summoning circle that I pointlessly drew over and over. Repeated exposure and meditation have changed that. I take the sigil into my mind.

It’s not that that the sigil overlays my vision, exactly. It’s just something I can bring into focus if I hold out my hand and will it. I do this now.

There it sits like a burning brand, overexposure leading to a flawless afterimage. As I focus on each target in turn it moves with my focus, a quarter-second behind my hand. I have truly integrated the sigil for Albrecht’s Aether Ray into my consciousness. I lower my hand and it fades, but I still feel it just beneath the surface. It is a part of me, as much as my fingers or my vision, and it waits to be called on.

I find it moderately terrifying that my mind is so willing to integrate and maintain its form. At first it had been a struggle. My mind wandered, the form of the sigil disintegrated. Now it would be easier to will my fingernails to fall off than to remove the sigil from my thoughts. I raise my hand once more.

At this very moment I see the sigil before my outstretched hand, between me and a target I wish to destroy. And yet...

Even after countless hours, I have not been able to cast the spell. The swirl of aetherial energy suffusing my body doesn’t conform. I am a trained arcanist, but I cannot get this to work. The sigil for Albrecht’s Aether Ray is a muscle I never learned to flex.

A sigil will summon nothing if unbalanced or underwrought. Like trying to produce a note while whistling: too much or too little intensity and nothing results but breathlessness.

I flex my hand, study the illusory lines. My mind pours energy into it. A warmth, perhaps. The whispering sensation of fingers sliding past smooth stone. Nothing else happens, and my head starts to hurt from the exertion of magical energies. I drop to the ground in frustration: the target remains unburned.

Esther walks over to check my progress. I report that I am no closer today. Her hardened face frowns, and she repeats a dreaded warning, another thought I’ve integrated so completely that its become an unseen part of my consciousness.

_The Legion cannot wait forever._

She's right. Hundreds of humans die every day in face of the aetherial invasion. We can’t afford the luxury of a delay.

I try harder.

\---

Days pass, but my determination only grows. The Aether Ray is undoubtedly my best possible contribution to the war against the aetherials. I am an arcanist, not a soldier. My time at the arcane university granted me much. Athleticism was not part of the curriculum.

Even so, I know the Legion would prefer me to pick up a sword and rush into combat. I think that it would be suicidal folly--it would be--but the Legion’s logisticians see it differently. At best, I could one day learn the strength of a battlemage or spellbreaker. I might even be a useful physical contribution to the war effort.

If things went poorly, I would die and they could feed my rations to someone more deserving.

Esther pressures me, but I see sympathy from her as well. She was a soldier before the start of the Grim Dawn. In those days female Legionaries were rare. Something must have driven her to fight even before the aetherials invaded.

Now everyone must fight, willingly or otherwise.

\--

Eventually I resort to flexing my imagining of the sigil itself. Maybe the problem isn’t my control over arcane energy, maybe the sigil I imprinted is malformed. It certainly doesn’t work on parchment--it has parts that require a biological basis, so that is expected--but how would I know if my imagining is flawed?

Sigils are written with exacting perfectionism on paper or armor, but this sigil is now written on my consciousness. My consciousness permits some flexibility. I allow the sigil to deform, hoping to strike the right note and break the glass between the aether and our world. The sigil twists and warps, and my mind whimpers in agony. It isn't unlike bending one's fingers the wrong way. No aetherfire pours forth, but I know I’m on the right track.

I can literally feel it. The air in front of my palm crackles, my fingers prickle as though pulled against raw splinters. Once again I experience the spark of hope, that I might avoid death on the battlefield. Esther sees my expression and doesn’t even ask. She will get me the time I need. She knows how important it is to remain true to one’s self. I remain hopeful.

My manipulation of the sigil is a desperate last resort. It just might work.

\---

Finally, _finally,_ I feel the spell catch. There is a resistance as the arcane energy begins tearing into the boundary between Cairn and the aetherial realm. My teeth clench in anticipation, even as the air rends.

The film between realities swells. The stone I felt earlier tears like paper.

Arcane energies cut a hole, a portal into a universe much more brutal than our own. Out floods the annihilation I so desired. It’s a beam, ten centimeters wide, and it’s made of white-hot aetherstuff. It vaporizes the target dummy six meters in front of me, then gloriously melts the soil behind that.

I laugh with pleasure. It's a death beam in the purest sense, but it means I might get to live. Everyone might get to live. Suddenly the light winks out, swirls of hot air carrying away blue motes. I collapse, but I’m satisfied.

The spell is taxing and my body has run out of magical energy--I’m unable to hold the portal open any longer. I lay in the dirt and stare up into a blue sky only slightly marred by rising ash. I'm grinning. I don’t need to examine the crackling, burning ditch I just dug.

Esther is standing near me. She tells me that the Legion will be pleased, and that I'll be sent on an excursion next week. I agree immediately.

My energy will regenerate, and there are ways to strengthen one’s arcane output. I’ll pursue them. I am filled with excitement. I want to prove my worth to the Legion, I want to help save humanity from the invaders. I want to see the beautiful flame of the Aether Ray once more. There is hope yet.

\---

The headaches from warping the sigil become easier to bear, and before long I can cast the Ray itself fairly easily.

The Ray is devastating. It causes everything it touches to burst into flame, even dirt and stone. Reanimated corpses vaporize. Briarthorn beasts disintegrate into smoking heaps of ash. Trolls in their crude leather and steel armor pop into sizzling hunks of meat studded with glowing iron embers. The smell would likely be terrible, except the ozone-and-aldehyde scent of the aether overpowers all.

That’s something I have to remember about the Aether Ray. Although most of the contamination seeps back into the realm from which it came, the Ray nevertheless leaves behind a small smattering of aether. It is worth the contamination to wield this power. If the aetherials aren't stopped our whole world will be contaminated all the same.

\---

Esther has accompanied us on the excursion. She directs her men to mop up the smaller monsters, goblins and undead, so that I may dedicate the Ray to more dire threats. I’m careful to follow her direction.

I cannot afford to accidentally incinerate an ally. Fortunately, the Ray is easy to aim and I don't use it except when a clear threat presents itself. A few times per day we encounter an errant aether abomination or a corrupted animal; these I am permitted to dispatch. Even the most stout monster falls within three steps, its flesh crackling with uncanny sparks.

Aetherial beings fair no better than natives of Cairn. This makes some sense. Although aether corruption mutates them into horrific mishapenness, most of their flesh originated on our plane. It's like fighting fire with dynamite. Beyond that, all things are vulnerable to aetherfire, even the beings of the aether. There’s a reason they flee to our realm.

The invading Aethereal army is likely to notice me decimating their advance parties. For now, we are uncontested. There are no survivors to report on my mastery.

The soldiers stand in awe, and often applaud when I fell a terrible beast. Things that would have sent them running die instantly--harmlessly--and we rejoice. However, the ease with which they are defeated doesn’t mean it is easy for me.

More than once Esther has caught me after I fall from utilizing the entirety of my energy. She personally defends me, ensuring that the party’s arcanist survives. I can’t help but chuckle when I contemplate it. Even after my success, I need her to carry me along.

\---

Military expeditions go as well as the exploratory ones. Several soldiers wish to transfer into Esther’s squad. Our death rate is unusually low, our kill rate unusually high. I watch the battles from behind the soldiers, listening to Esther's expert direction. She guides them, directing them toward threats and situations they can handle and away form ones they can't. All throughout I wait for the signal. Esther need merely point to things she wants obliterated. I oblige. The beautiful Ray of death is a symbol of hope. I find myself smiling every time I see the sigil. I stretch out my hand, placing my enemies between my finger and thumb. When I close my fingers they are obliterated.

\---

We encounter two great enemies: a pair of abominations that had been travelling together. The second is enraged after I immolate the first. I turn the Ray toward it, but the beam winks out and my legs threaten to fail. I am frozen without magical energy. I can still see the sigil in my mind’s eye, but without arcane might it does nothing. Esther grabs my wrist and yanks me into a carry. I look back and her men are valiantly defending us, engaging with the monster. Swords clang against claws. Without Esther's oversight it’s a desperate, confused battle.

Esther throws me on the ground and rejoins her men. Two fall before the wounded abomination finally retreats. The expedition is over, and we turn back toward Legion-controlled ground.

The Ray no longer garners applause. I am the focus of saddened stares and glances. I failed, but I also survived: it's an unnatural situation that evokes anger and sorrow. Shame burns into my being. No one will meet my eyes.

I must get better at this if I want to survive, if I want to remove the feeling of failure. Those men are dead and I yet live. I will do better.

My sorrow is subsumed by anger. The source is irrelevant; anger can be fuel. And yet, my anger is tempered by pragmatism.

\---

The obvious answer is potions. There is a concoction that can restore vital magics. It is made from the blood of slain aetherial monsters. I carry small bottles of the stuff on my belt, drinking them when my body’s natural power is insufficient. My protocol isn’t to drink potions when an unexpected monster requires it. It is to drink whenever I have exerted myself at all--I will be ready for the unexpected monster by virtue of always being ready.

My strategy still requires the soldiers to do as much work as possible. My output is still limited. Using the Ray is in some ways too convenient. I must hold myself back during merely difficult battles, so that I am capable of withstanding any desperate situation I encounter in the future. The potions upset my stomach, but it’s a small price to pay.

Our next excursion goes well. Through my nausea I am pleased.

\---

As the war effort pushes back against the aetherial invaders, things become more difficult. Word has gotten back to the unseen leaders of the invasion force. Some of the abominations are covered with crystalline shards. Made of aetherstuff, these shards distort the material of the Aether Ray and grant the beasts an extra second or two before my magic obliterates them.

I doubt this countermeasure is designed for me specifically. I am not the only arcanist in the Legion. The shards only delay me for a second.

And yet, even one extra second of the Ray costs me dearly. I find myself choking down the magical potions with a distressing frequency. I try to keep in mind that my weakness might cost more soldiers their lives.

I need more power. I ask Esther for help.

\---

Training can only take one so far. My body is near the peak possible for an arcanist--that is, I produce magical energy almost as fast as humanly possible. I use my magics constantly, encouraging my body to ramp up its production, and I work to maximize what I can pump through the Ray itself through regular meditation and practice.

Equipment takes me beyond the limitations of my body. Esther uses her connections through the Legion to acquire artifacts. My shirt and pants have magical diagrams sewn into them. These increase my energy regeneration rate. My gloves bear sigils of their own that intensify all flames, including those of the Ray. It was a creative solution carefully tested; for the purposes of magic, aetherfire is still fire.

I carry talismans and magical runes. Even my hat distinguishes me as an arcanist. Under its wide brim my thoughts are sharp and merciless. The beam of devastation I produce is a stream honed by fury and determination. Mental alacrity translates directly into magical potency.

Our enemies are also seeking better equipment. I notice that the abominations have taken to wearing armors warded against aetherial magic. They also perform rituals to harden their bodies to magical destruction. These steps might be effective against the other arcanists in the Legion, but my Ray of destruction cuts through them all.

\---

Angry from my enchantments, sick from my potions, I find myself laughing sometimes when I see an enemy monster explode into flame. These damned things will feel my wrath. I can feel joy even as they make me suffer, because _I make them suffer more_.

The Legion fights back. We can push them back toward their portals and the hellish realm they deserve.

\---

The constant potion consumption is affecting my health. Nodules start to form under the skin of my back and fingers. I visit the medical mage at the hospital tent to have them cut out. It hurts. The mage warns me to slow down my consumption. He says that the magical growths are a sign that I'm overexerting my body.

Of course I am. Humanity itself is overexerted. I'm just doing my part.

I get sigil tattoos for my back to suppress the magics there. The nodules don't reform, and there is an unexpected side-effect. My magical output further increases. I rejoice. A weakness has become a strength. I also get tattoos for my hands and arms. I wear my focus and dedication honestly--soldiers remark upon the changes. Not only to my skin, but to my magical might.

\---

No single technique is sufficient on  its own, so I learn new spells to supplement the Ray. With painstaking weeks of effort I learn the Mirror of Ereoctes. This spell deflects all incoming magic. Should an abomination possess spells of its own, I can shield myself for a short duration. However, my own magic is not stopped by the barrier.

Behind the Mirror of Ereoctes my outstretched hand guides the sigil of the Ray, an omen of death for my enemies. The Mirror lasts for approximately three seconds. Very few enemies can survive the Ray’s onslaught for that duration.

My Mirror is even strong enough to ward off physical attacks. Perhaps it is my obsessively optimized equipment and magical capability, or perhaps it's a natural outcome for one who masters the Mirror. Whatever the case, I will be ready should an enemy ever sneak past my squad. Defensive magics are one more way that I strengthen myself for this war.

\---

I leave no avenue of possibility unexplored. Equipment, potions, practice, study, and even faith.

Esther recommends I make pilgrimages to the shrines, to pray for the creatures I am required to slay as we wage war with the aetherials. Esther is the only human on Cairn that could convince me to visit a shrine.

\---

We are in battle with a corrupted giant troll. It stands twenty meters from me, its immense bulk making it feel close. The armor it wears is thick and embedded with flecks of aetherial crystal. I unleash the Aether Ray as soon as it is within range.

My beam is deflected by the crystal. The armor heats, but the troll twists to keep the beam from penetrating. I hear sizzling flesh and a roar, but the beast has self-control. It is possessed by an aetherial. Even if the troll is stupid, the aetherial is at least smart enough to wait me out, twirling to disrupt and diffuse the Ray.

Five seconds pass. Ten. My energy runs out, but I'm already shakily drinking a potion with my left hand. The soldiers move to engage now that they are safe from the Ray, but they are not safe.

The troll swings its club and smashes aside three men. Two writhe on the ground, the third is still after striking a boulder. Deep thuds; it walks toward me, halving the distance. The potion takes effect and I renew the Ray, but the troll holds its club between us. I melt the steel, the wood burns, several seconds pass. The weapon is destroyed, so the troll throws it at me. A stump of a handle flies past my head, the wind of its passing yanks off my hat, and the troll turns to cower. I start to vaporize its armor. It is too close and in too much pain to dodge effectively.

My energy runs out _again_. I scream.

Esther engages this time. She shouts at the monstrosity and leaps toward it. The troll cannot ignore her. Her lieutenant also drives an attack; they surround the enemy, keeping it off balance while I struggle to swallow another potion. Both human soldiers expertly dodge blows. The troll is now unarmed, so the soldiers are more capable of surviving its attacks. I can't swallow the potion: my stomach seethes with discomfort.

The troll spins and grabs the lieutenant by the arm. He is thrown to the ground and stomped on, making a wet sound. I drop the bottle and vomit, tears streaking my face. Esther stabs valiantly and is struck aside.

The troll lumbers toward me. I desperately try to hit it, but it flicks aside my fist. A huge, burned hand closes around my midsection.

My breath rushes out. I'm lifted and held near the troll's giant face, my back creaking, legs flailing helplessly. I cast the mirror of Ereoctes: its hand holds me, but for the moment I cannot be crushed. I have three seconds left to live.

Fetid breath caresses my cheek. I try to spit on the troll. Any moment I will die, despite my best efforts, and yet the troll cannot kill me immediately. No. I must remember: it's an aetherial in a troll's body. The aetherial cannot kill me yet.

I fail to do anything of importance.

The Mirror runs out. The troll does not crush me.

It is _toying_ with me, after killing my squad. It is talking to me.

It talks. I don't listen or understand. My confusion is too great. The Mirror has ended, and still it does not crush me. The troll laughs, and continues to speak, its disgusting breath depleted and suffocating. I am helpless before my own weakness. I hear nothing.

I feel only anger.

The troll is speaking still. I didn't know trolls were capable of that, possessed or not. The aetherial controlling it seems to know me, is trying to bargain with me. I don't care.

It is about to crush me to death. I don't care.

This troll--

_\--the sigil is always ready--_

\--it thinks that it doesn’t have to fight to live--

_\--resting in the hand I raise to its cheek--_

_\--_ I’m going to _kill it-_ -

_\--fingers frame a darkly laughing face--_

\--it has made a _mistake!_

I was out of magic. Now, I’m not.

Annihilation pours out, into its eyes and mouth. The troll roars. It convulsively closes its hand, breaking half my ribs _but not my concentration_.

It _will_ die.

My power, my will to destruction, draws from a deep well, far deeper than the limitations of a living thing that intends to survive.

The Aether Ray pours out of me, burning its skull and brain. We fall to the ground and I don't let up, cauterizing its headless neck through its collar bone. I won't stop. Smoke and drops of molten iron fly from its flaming chest. I wouldn’t be able to breathe air so toxic, if I was still breathing.

My organs might all be crushed or punctured, but my mind is functioning just fine. My consciousness is only gleaming lines calling forth fire and death. The sigil fills the entirety of my vision. Its purity is relieving; pain irrelevant, fear irrelevant, the impending destruction of humanity forgotten. There is only me and this roaring stream that connects me to the corpse of my enemy.

A voice:

_Death is only the beginning._

Finally, I shudder and lose consciousness.

\---

I sit up in bed, my heart pounding. Within a moment I feel an intense relief: if I’m conscious, I survived. And yet…the relief is not unalloyed. My heart continues to pound. I look around the room, some part of me still expecting an enemy to appear and attack. I hold the sigil ready in my mind, my thin arm pointed at the wall, then at the chair. Everything is vulnerable to aetherfire, and the availability of the sigil helps calm me further.

I’m in the encampment hospital. One of the Legion’s healers must have been nearby, ready to save me the moment I lost consciousness. I’m extraordinarily lucky.

It takes me almost a minute to remember Esther and our fallen comrades.

Finally, I catch my breath. I stand and walk. My sides hurt. Magical healing removed the injuries, but not the memory of injury. I’m clothed in a plain tunic and pants, or from another perspective, I’m naked without my magical gear. I decide that after I retrieve my gear, I’m going to go and find Esther. I assume she survived, because if she had been killed I would also have been killed.

I walk fast and it hurts. Every step reminds me that I yet live. I remember the terrifying power of the Aether Ray. Part of me is eager to return to the battlefield and put it to use once more.

I am glad the troll is dead, and I yet live.

\---

Something changed after my battle with the troll. Esther says that a near-death experience on the battlefield can harden or shatter a soldier, and that if hardened the soldier becomes much more capable. She says that the experience of imminent death clarifies, simplifies, and motivates. I’m not sure I really understand what she means, and especially not in my case.

My arcane might has doubled since the battle. I cast the Ray freely, luxuriously, and my magical energy returns with an enabling ease. My maximum time for producing the Ray has increased by almost three times. I can make the ray a quarter of a meter wide if I wish. I’m flush with power. I don’t feel any different otherwise, except now… now I am a much more magnificent force of destruction.

My superiors have taken notice, as have my fellow soldiers. They call me the Cannon of Death.

I’m not certain, but it’s possible that the entire Legion has heard of me by now. I am legendary, not only for my destructive capability, but for my insistence that I remain in an advance squad instead of seeking a higher-ranked role. I’m a terrifying arcanist, but I’m humble. My best contribution to the war was always going to involve me directly setting things on fire.

Some other arcanists have roles protecting generals, or as logisticians. Absurd.

\---

The soldiers in my squad ask me to use the Aether Ray less frequently. It leaves tracks of damaged soil wherever I apply it, and in a sense it contributes to the worsening spread of aether corruption from the invasion.

I don't think that's their true concern. I think their weak bodies find it unsettling to have so much destructive power flying past. Even so, I agree to save the Ray for only those most deadly enemies, as we did before. I wait patiently while we advance, unused power thrumming in my fingers. Esther doesn’t have to spend time protecting me any more; woe upon any enemy that draws near to the Cannon of Death.

The soldiers make many demands. They tell me to return to camp early in the evening, and they prevent me from travelling forward by myself in the mornings, or at all. I don't appreciate these delays. With the Mirror and with my newfound power, do I even need them as an escort?

\---

No.

Aetherfire doesn’t provide much light to see by, which is fortunate. My excursions at night are more successful if they can be made without retribution.

I’ve been having trouble sleeping. I venture further and further, my thoughts carrying me as surely as my feet. It doesn’t take me long to get a sense of where the enemies are likely to be encamped. I always go in that direction.

I find that the guards that stand close together are obliterated together. Every night I retreat as soon as any enemy successfully raises the alarm. The first enemy that alerts anyone is the last enemy I kill. Usually I manage to defeat two or three guards, but sometimes I take down an entire small camp.

I look forward to an evening in which I can stay out until dawn.

\---

I can cast the Ray so freely. During the days we make meteoric progress, resistance crushed with my unending stream of death. The tired enemies cower before us.

Esther is concerned. She has noticed the bags under my eyes, my diminished talkativeness. She used to playfully criticize my willingness to converse on a mission, calling me chatty. I try to summon the effort to fake that enthusiasm once more.

I fail. My standing with Esther isn’t all that important, these days, and I can’t help but think the missions I go on with the soldiers could be even more effective. When I speak unnecessarily I slow our progress to the next monster to be burned.

The truly meteoric progress is made at night, when I thin enemy ranks. I don’t think my teammates know how much it helps us. The enemy is drawing back advanced parties, is becoming unwilling to encamp in unprotected areas.

For now it’s better if the other soldiers don’t find out.

\---

The aetherial camps have increased the number of guards they post. I can no longer spend my nights invading enemy camps. If I try, I will be confronted with an entire mobilized army. Even I might die in those circumstances. The ruckus would probably wake my comrades as well. I truly can’t afford to sneak out at night any more.

I just can’t.

\---

At least I still get to battle during the day.

The enemies explode when hit. I joyously overpower them, so that small enemies disintegrate into steaming viscera before the flames can even catch. I try not to laugh _every_ time I us the Ray, which is often given my increased regeneration rate.

Now I can look back on the battle with the troll with fondness. It was a step on the path to this point, in which I became legendary in the war against the Aetherials. The soldiers in the Legion praise me constantly. And yet…it isn’t really enough. Returning to camp at night is unbearable.

\---

Esther yells at me. I want to shout back; it’s unfair and frankly insane of her to criticize my decisions when they’ve lead to such gains in the war. I speak calmly instead of shouting. Losing my cool and blowing up against a superior would serve no one.

Beyond that, she is hardly my superior any more. As the legendary Cannon of Death, I can almost do whatever I want. It occurs to me that perhaps others had seen me sneaking out before, but just not reported it.

I clench my teeth and listen to her yelling. I mentally retrace the sigil.

Esther says that the risk to myself is unwarranted. I tell her that I ventured out for weeks without incident. That only makes things worse.

Esther wants me to consider the effect it will have on mission planning. I know she is just looking for excuses, but I state that the mission planners probably find their job to be easier when I’ve reduced the enemy. Beyond that, chaos that disproportionately disrupts the enemy is an advantage.

Retracing the sigil yet again keeps me calm as she shouts.

She starts going on about the dangers of provoking retribution. It’s like she doesn't hear my arguments. Maybe if I were more emphatic, like her, she would be moved. I fall silent. Trying to debate with her is a pointless endeavor.

Finally, she says that if I go out alone and am captured I might be forced into possession by an Aetherial. This is the most coherent argument she has made so far. She has a point, but I’ll be damned if I concede in this argument. I tell her that if I’m captured I’ll just turn the sigil on myself and remove the possibility of possession. She starts to say that I wouldn't be capable of that, but then stops. I can’t understand the expression on her face.

At this point the Commander arrives. My seething anger starts to diminish. He listens to my explanation. Esther provides her concerns, listlessly now. The Commander tells me that he appreciates my value in the war, so much so that further risking myself is unacceptable.

In the end, we agree that there will be no more excursions at night.

I am given a new set of potions to help me sleep. They make my thoughts muddled, everything except the sigil difficult to imagine. I dislike them.

One good thing comes of this. I told Esther that I sleep better when I get to use the Ray more frequently during the day. By Commander’s order, I’m allowed to immolate even the minions. It will be apparent that the soldiers are merely an escort the next time we go out.

Tomorrow.

\---

It’s inconvenient that I have to interrupt the flow of the Aether Ray as I sweep it from left to right. The Legion soldiers accompanying us cause the interruption. They are pillars that block my gaze; or rather, deliberate blind spots. I have to be careful what I subject to immolation. I'd be killing enemies so much faster if I didn't have to stop and check who was an enemy. It's not like I need their defense anyway. I always have the Mirror, if anything manages to survive my deadly onslaught. Fifteen seconds of invulnerability is an eternity for someone of my destructive capability.

Esther continues to shout orders. I wish she would tell the men to just stay the hell out of my way.

\---

I have been ordered to the hospital tent for an examination. The specifics are irrelevant. I wish to return to the field at first opportunity. Somebody needs to kill all these monsters as soon as possible, I say, but the medical mage seems to ignore that.

He instead asks me an extra long series of inane questions. I can’t believe I put up with it. He wants to know about my sleeping at night, about my dreams, about my thoughts. Here in the hospital tent I'm tense and unsettled. Ignoring the sigil is so tiring, so painful. I want to get back on the battlefield and let out that frustration. I explain it to him in as short a way as possible. He insists I elaborate, asks me about my frustration.

I’m talking to some person when I could be out there using the Ray to kill monsters. Isn’t helping humanity survive this war the thing of utmost importance? I fall silent.

Finally, the medic clears me and I am allowed to return to the field. I let out the Ray and my breath.

\---

Things can get confusing in the heat of battle. Today a soldier in our squad had to be replaced; injured in the field. If we are battling aether zombies empowered with fire, we should not be surprised if some of our men get burned.

Esther orders me to take a few days away from the war effort. Absurd. The thought of holding back the sigil is sickening, and besides: am I not the most valuable addition to the war against the Aetherials?

I go over her head. The Commander says I can fight as long as I'm willing. He sees my value. I will go out tomorrow, just as I did today.

\---

The Commander retracts permission. He too now insists that I stop fighting. Esther must have spoken to him.

They tell me I am not to leave the Legion camp for three days or it will be considered an act of treason. They put me under guard and stick me in my tent. They take my armor and potions. They don’t put me in irons--they probably know it wouldn’t make a difference, or that it would make things worse. I am still the Cannon of Death. I cannot be seen in irons.

I sit alone and tremble in frustration. I feel the presence of the guards outside. Knowing they are there frustrates me further. It’s shameful that someone of my power is subject to this.

My fingers are twitching. The sigil is in my mind, in my hands. It burns.

\---

As I sit in my tent, unsleeping, I notice that the nodules on my back have returned. My skin cracks with unspent arcane energy. I cry.

Everywhere I look I see the sigil. I blink and it’s there, I stare and it’s there, I shake my head and it follows my gaze even while I’m blinded by motion. Taunting me. My breath is hot and slow.

I cast the Mirror of Ereoctes and I strike myself in the stomach. It does no physical harm, as expected, but neither does it drain my magical energy, as hoped. I keep hitting until the Mirror fades. It’s not like I can hit that hard, anyway.

I bite my palm. My blood is warm. It doesn't reassure me.

I don't have to suffer. I am powerful. I can survive anything, and I could get out of this situation so _easily!_ The sigil is a constant reminder that all these inconveniences are unnecessary. It’s not hard to imagine solutions to my predicament.

I stand, not for the first time, and stare at the entrance to my tent.

I sit back down and put my head in my hands. Hot tears tickle the tips of my fingers, but I barely feel them. Something inside of me is tearing, a hole is forming. It’s a bridge between this world and one that is much more brutal.

I focus all my willpower on a single simple thing--to remain seated, here in my tent.

I fail.


End file.
